The Beautiful and Poisoned Mind
by ThePro-LifeCatholic
Summary: In the throes of drug-induced delirium, Sherlock Holmes is visited by a strange man in a blue suit, with eyes too old for his appearance. Never has Sherlock learned his name, nor has he deducted his objectives. All he really knows for certain is that this impossible man simply cannot exist. And even if he did, what would he want with a drug-addicted detective?
_Sometimes a man would come._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold cement and pieces of chipped gravel. _*Thud-thud-thud*_ went his heart, matching the dull pounding against his skull. The rancid stench of perspiration and vomit clogged his nostrils. A part of his mind noted how filthy his environment was, and how immensely idiotic he was.

 _*If your brother could see you now*_

Despite that ever-present whisper of reason – the stinging sliver in the back of his mind – his physical and mental condition wouldn't allow for anything more than the smallest of movements. Even raising his head and dragging himself several inches across the floor ended with strangled gasps and an erratic pulse.

 _*Always a list, Brother Mine*_

Shaking hands, usually so composed, so still, gripped a shred of paper. Fingers suited for surgeon's work – thin, delicate, and spindly – popped blisters from rubbing the paper, making sure it was still in his hand. Again and again he traced the words scrawled across the white sheet. He would mouth silently, replaying the conversation he would have within a matter of hours, minutes, or days.

Footsteps would herald an arrival. Sherlock pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, then slowly clawed his way forward. In his drunken stupor he felt for a hard, vertical surface. Once his hands brushed against a wall, he used it to force himself up onto his feet. Rocking on wobbling legs, he turned to face the stranger. He had learned by now to expect him, because – with very rare exception – it was always the same man.

"Hullo?" a voice with a distinctive cockney accent called softly. His footfalls were sometimes accompanied by the _*crunch*_ of dry leaves, or clattering as he kicked aside random chunks of rubble. Then he would appear suddenly, his silhouette trailing behind him like a voiceless companion.

"Sherlock," he said. It was incredible, Sherlock noted, how much emotion could be packed into a single word. Deep brown irises took in his ragged condition at a glance. The man stuffed his hands into the pockets of blue pinstriped pants. "Thought I'd find you here."

The detective grunted, not bothering to extend a greeting to the stranger. A soft moan escaped his lips, sounding very loud in the relative silence of their unpopulated surroundings. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, sucking air into his mouth harshly and pinching his lips together until they turned white. Even in his deplorable state, he felt the need to hide his emotions; any weakness that he displayed could only be used against him.

The man crossed the distance between them, closing it in only a few strides. Firm hands took hold of Sherlock's shoulders in a solid grip, but the drunken detective didn't feel particularly threatened. In fact, a small part of him that he r _efused_ to fully acknowledge welcomed the comforting nearness of another person. Trapped in the isolation of his stupor, filled with strange noises and nonexistent figures, the warmth and protection of something that he could feel gave Sherlock a sense of security. He was anchored to reality by the touch of this man's hands…even if the man in question was nothing more than a figment of his own contorted imagination.

"Sherlock," the man said again, quietly. The word hung between them, and it was overflowing with so much _emotion._ It was revolting; if Sherlock hadn't been sick already, he would've begun feeling queasy at the very _sound_ of the man's voice. Right now, though, reduced to little more than a sniveling teenager who had just come home from an all-night drug competition, Sherlock could do nothing but lean against the man and listen to his words.

"Why have you done this to yourself?"

The question wasn't judgmental; it wasn't snotty or contemptuous. It was simply requesting a truthful answer. Sherlock, not feeling up to talking at all, instead began to fumble for his coat. The man shifted position slightly, and Sherlock felt the soft, heavy fabric of his trenchcoat brush against his shoulders.

"You're gonna have to stop this," the man continued. Sherlock cracked open his eyes at this statement, fixing the stranger with a slitted glare. He still didn't say anything, but the word passed, unspoken, between the two.

" _Why?"_

"Because," he said matter-of-factly, "You've got important things in your future, and your mind being poisoned by drugs isn't going to help."

Sherlock blinked. His muddled brain was trying to process what he had just heard, but information was moving slowly. Agonizingly slowly.

 _*Why do you do this to yourself? What, exactly, does this accomplish?*_

"He'd be disappointed in you." The man was still talking, despite the listless condition of his one-member audience. "But he'll stick with it."

His voice lifted at this sentence, and Sherlock tilted his head back to look at him. The man was smiling, his dark brown eyes – too old, too ancient, for his skin-tight suit and crazy hair and unlined face – gleaming with an inner light. He glanced down at Sherlock, and their eyes met. Then the man's head snapped up and he looked over his shoulder. Sherlock tensed up, straining to hear whatever had put the man on-edge. Any outside noises, however, were lost in the hissing half-whispers that prodded his addled mind and danced on the edges of his subconscious.

Before the detective could react (or even consider reacting), the passerby was lowering him gently to the ground. Sherlock attempted a weak struggle, not wanting to be placed on his back on the bare floor.

"It's alright," the man assured him quickly, taking his pale, shaking hands in his own. Sherlock felt the wall scrape against his back; he went still when he finally understood what the man was doing. After propping him up and making sure he was in a relatively comfortable position, the stranger stepped back, his hands returning to his pants' pockets.

"Look after yourself," he said at last. "At this point, a skull simply won't cut it."

Sherlock squinted up at him. The man's expression was strained; whatever he was talking about, it was obviously something important to him.

"There's a bunch of people who need you, Sherlock. More than you would know." He grinned then, showing a flash of white teeth. Mysterious and cheeky, the detective quickly concluded. What a stupid combination.

Then he was gone.

Sherlock gazed intently at the empty space in front of him, trying to focus his groggy vision on a figure that had been there not more than two seconds ago. Another dizzying wave of exhaustion overcame him, and he let his head flop forward, his gaze now trained on the floor. Around him, he was vaguely aware of voices drifting in and out of hearing. Something made contact with his arm, grabbing at the scrap of paper. With a violent motion, Sherlock jerked his hand back, closing his fist around the list. He closed his eyes, blocking out his surroundings and directing all of his attention to his haggard breaths.

Sherlock knew that, when he opened his eyes again, the man would no longer be there. It only made sense; he was nothing more than another drug-induced hallucination, after all. Logically, this was the only possible solution. He only came when Sherlock was in the throes of abuse repercussions. He was a stranger who never gave his name and rarely made sense…

Sherlock's fingers twitched. He could still feel the aberrant pulsing beneath his fingertips: a pulse he had perceived when he had gripped the man's wrist.

" _He'll stick with it."_

 _*Who? Mycroft?*_

No living person could have a heartbeat that fast and be allowed to wander the streets freely, let alone go exploring in dank alley-ways where the outcasts gathered. No living person could have a double-pulse. That would only mean…

Sherlock shook his head and moaned. Several pairs of hands grabbed him roughly under the arms, dragging him to his feet. The voices became somewhat clearer, and he could've sworn he heard his brother amidst the snippets of conversations.

The impossible man had left, and he wouldn't come back.

 _*That is, until next time.*_

* * *

 **I know I have other stuff I need to be working on, but this little crossover idea has been sitting on my computer, partially typed, for months now. So, instead of completing a college assignment that's due tonight, I decided to finish this.**

 **As you can plainly see, I have my priorities in order.**

 **Not.**

 **Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy! This one-shot was inspired by a .gif set on rebloggy. It isn't mine; all credit for that goes to its maker. You can find it easily by going onto rebloggy and searching for "Wholock". I'm pretty sure that's how I found it.**

 **God bless and have a great day (or night)!**

 **ThePro-LifeCatholic**


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